​I leave sizzling August heat behind and enter a cool, faintly damp corridor lit by harsh LED light. The door behind me - a foot thick - remains opened (I turn around to check). I'm now inside Tirana’s largest underground bunker, built in the 1970s to accommodate the entire Albanian government in case of a nuclear attack. It was one of the 173,000 bunkers constructed on the orders of the paranoid communist leader Enver Hoxha. After the fall of communism in Albania in 1991, most of the bunkers scattered around the country were abandoned. This one has been converted into BUNK’ART, a history museum.

As one of few visitors, I can't help but feel the oppressing chill of the place. Here is Hoxha’s office and bedroom with a spartan single bed. Here is a cupboard with gas masks should you wish to venture out. Unbelievably, there is even a large assembly hall inside. In other rooms museum curators have chosen to show the history of Albania in black and white photographs covering the country’s occupation by Italian fascists in 1939-1943, German invasion in 1943-1944 and isolated communist dictatorship under Hoxha until his death in 1985. The exhibition is excellent. It unnerves and devastates. ​

Back outside I am grateful for the sunlight. I catch a ray cheekily pointing to a fig tree with a handful of ripe fruit. I help myself to a few honey-dripping figs and catch a bus back into the centre of Tirana. Here I join a walking tour led by a couple of local guides. It’s not the sights that I am after - I want to learn about the people who have inherited the country’s painful history. I am not disappointed. The guide Eri, who is in his early 40s, tells us many personal anecdotes which help to understand Albania today. He recalls how Christian missionaries arrived in Tirana and used to give out free chocolates after sermons. Eri attended the sermons diligently every Sunday because he had never even tasted chocolate before. And then he tells us a story about bananas, which first appeared in Albania in 1991. “My mother thought they weren’t real - she was too afraid to taste one!” Other tourists laugh in disbelief. I simply nod recalling my own “bananaless" childhood in the Soviet Union.
 
Exploring eerie underground bunkers and learning about incredible hardship under self-imposed economic isolation isn’t everyone’s idea of a summer holiday. After leaving Tirana I visit Albania’s picture-perfect castles of Berat, Gjirokastër and Shkodra, ancient Roman and Ottoman ruins at the archeological park of Butrint, swim in idyllic waters of the Ionian sea and hike in the majestic Accursed Mountains. In-between I travel by bus munching on sweet figs and I keep spotting creepy bunkers, popping by the road all over Albania. My mind travels back to the underground labyrinth of Tirana and its heart-breaking stories. Perhaps one needs a dash of bitterness to appreciate a perfect summer break. 

Four months ago I teamed up with a British businessman Lord Waheed Alli to launch a start-up investment fund. We invest in innovative, consumer-facing businesses, run by women and/or minority founders. So far we have reviewed 75 investment opportunities and invested in two of them. I attended several pitch events, sifted through some excellent (and some terrible) presentations, downloaded many new apps and spoke to founders based in New York, LA, Bangalore, Cambridge and, of course, London. It's been a fascinating journey so far, I've learned a lot quickly and thought I'd share some insights here with you.    

The obvious place to start is to tell you about the companies we have invested in and why. The first company is called Outfox Drinks - it's a new brand of "dry" wine launching this summer in the UK. Outfox wines are completely alcohol-free, they taste great and are low sugar and calories. They are great for socialising if you are a teetotaller or are simply having a "dry" night, but aren't keen on having yet another glass of water or a carbonated sugary drink. 

I met Jessica, the founder of Outfox Drinks, at a pitch event at the AllBright Club. I was immediately impressed by her presentation: it was clear that her start-up was solving a problem and targeting a large and growing consumer market. Jessica was previously at Kraft Foods where she looked after Vita Coco, which means she has a direct and relevant experience of growing a beverage brand. Jessica appeared to be confident and her presentation materials were superb. I wasn't looking to invest in a consumer product but her pitch was the best - she caught my attention. Ultimately, we decided to invest in Outfox because it offered an innovative product which tasted great, had an immediate appeal as a brand and because we liked the founder.  

Our second investment is Olio - a neighbour-to-neighbour surplus food sharing app. Olio helps people and businesses give away unwanted food rather than waste it. The reason Olio is a compelling business became obvious as soon as I downloaded the app: there were 6,000 Olio users within a 5km radius from me; someone just posted a loaf of proper spelt sourdough bread unsold during the day by a local bakery - I requested it, made pick-up arrangements and got a free loaf of the best sourdough I'd ever tasted. I also got rid of spice mixes I don't use within a minute(!) of posting them on the app. Some entrepreneurial fellow posted "25% the food bill at your local restaurant" - the ad was soon taken down by the company but this is precisely how Olio is going to make money once they activate their revenue model. They are already getting paid by some retailers to pick up their unsold food such as sandwiches and give it away via the app.

Olio was designed to solve a huge and acute problem. It is tapping into the rising awareness of food waste and sustainability globally.  The company's founders, Tessa and Saasha, impressed me as ambitious, super hard-working and capable. Olio is innovative, fast-growing, and it makes a real positive impact on local communities. 

Now let me give you a few specific tips on how to get attention from potential investors.

1. Make yourself stand out

Angel investors, VC funds and investor syndicates receive a dozen of pitches a day. They don't have time to meet every single entrepreneur for a coffee - they would be permanently wired and exhausted otherwise. When you are getting in touch, spend hours to perfect your email so that it is short, straight to the point and has a hook. I won't meet you, I won't even open your presentation or click on a link to your website unless you have grabbed my attention within the first paragraph of your email. In the last four months I only met one person to hear out his pitch knowing nothing about it in advance. Why the exception? It was a lovely day and instead of offering to buy me a coffee, he suggested we go for a walk by the Thames. He stood out, I got hooked. (Sadly, his business idea wasn't very exciting...)

2. Get that pitch deck right

Presentations are hard, but if a pitch deck doesn't tell me why this is a golden opportunity, then I am likely to lose interest before we get a chance to meet. To give you a concrete example, Outfox Drinks pitch looked beautiful, told me everything about the target market, the problem and how it intends to solve it, the vision for the brand and the plan of how the company will get there. I got information on the founder. I learned about the competition. I got excited by the business plan and the unique selling points. I got facts and pretty pictures. A good pitch tells a story. A bad pitch is an amalgamation of disjointed slides. 

3. It's all about you

People investing in early stage businesses take on a lot of risk. Most start-ups fail no matter how brilliant their ideas are or how big is the addressable market. It's not even about the idea - it's all about execution. And who is in charge of that? You! Investors back entrepreneurs, not businesses. A start-up is too early to judge on its own merit so investors turn to the founder's background instead. It is no wonder that "serial entrepreneurs" find it relatively easy to raise money. Tessa and Saasha at Olio used to manage teams which gives me reassurance that as their start-up grows, they'll be able to hire, inspire and retain the best talent. As a founder, you have to sell yourself, so go through your CV and find the most relevant experience which will make you look investible. 

4. Remember that no one owes you anything

Even before I started my current role I met many entrepreneurs looking for funding. Most of them got a meeting with a potential angel investor through an introduction. Sometimes they were recommended by a more experienced founder; sometimes they knew someone who knew someone and scored a meeting as a favour. The thing is, all that glitters isn't gold. Even if you found a way to open doors, it doesn't mean that investors will meet you with a cheque book in hand. It is still all about you and your business. I once met two founders who wanted to launch a money saving app. They wanted to get funding before they even created a prototype. They were surprised I wasn't very impressed maybe because they thought their charm would do the trick. In reality, tons of businesses get to the stage of a minimum viable product on a shoestring budget - now that's impressive and will get you attention. 

5. Find a way to relate to the investor you are meeting

Finding a right investment opportunity is a numbers game. Flipping it around, entrepreneurs must be more discerning. It is true that you might end up speaking to dozens of investors, but put your best foot forward every time. This means finding a way to relate to the person you are speaking to. It's easy to do some research ahead of your pitch using LinkedIn, Twitter and other relevant online sources. Find an engaging way to break the ice and the conversation will flow much easier.

Also, remember that investors are biased. They don't mean to be, but they are only human. A 2016 study from the Entrepreneurs Network stated that only 9% of funding into UK start-ups went to women-run businesses. According to a Women in UK VC study commissioned by a non-profit organisation Diversity VC in 2017, only 18% of investment professionals in UK VCs are women and only 13% of decision-makers are female. 48% of UK VC firms have no women on their investment teams at all. It's pretty obvious that there is a correlation between mostly male decision-makers and mostly male founders getting funded. So if you are a woman looking for capital for your start-up, find female angel investors, investor syndicates focussed on female founders (e.g. Angel Academe) or approach female executives at VC funds. You may well find it easier to relate to them and vice versa. 

I recently had a conversation with a Russian couple about a tax reform in Uzbekistan. I said I was very impressed with the Uzbek spokeswoman who had addressed the nation and explained that the key objective of the proposed tax reform is to change the mindset of Uzbek citizens who should understand that the taxes they pay go towards building roads, hospitals, schools and libraries. This is precisely what is amiss in Russia. My companions were astounded to discover that when we talk about the National Health Service or foreign aid in Britain, we discuss government spending from the point of view of taxpayers. It's taxpayers who own schools, hospitals, roads and pay for the troops being sent to the Middle East. It's the term commonly featured in the media - in turn, it's being used by Brits in everyday speech.

Just now looking up the word "taxpayers" on Google News brings up a handful of headlines to illustrate my point: "Academies are using taxpayers' money to pay 'unjustifiably' high salaries to senior staff, MPs warn"; "Air pollution: UK government's failed legal battles cost taxpayers" and "Wrong waste in recycle bins costing taxpayer thousands says report" . 

By contrast, in Russia, the word "taxpayers" isn't used very often; instead, it's "the state". The state owns schools, invests (or doesn't invest) in roads, writes off foreign debt to Venezuela and builds a new hospital in Syria.  It's the state not the taxpayers who bankrolls military parades and finances television networks. As a result, I can think of at least three sad consequences of such linguistic practice. First, paying taxes has no connection with education, healthcare or infrastructure in the minds of most Russians. It's considered a burden rather than a fair obligation of every citizen. Secondly, in contrast to the Western values of "self-made men", many Russian people expect the state to look after them and make things better. Individual citizen responsibility is not part of the daily agenda. Thirdly, when the Kremlin makes an announcement about building a hospital in Syria, few people are thinking "hang on, it's my money - is this really the best way to use it?". 

Western readers are probably finding it hard to believe this. Surely, they think, bright people in Russia can see through the veneer of the language. Sadly, neurolinguistic programming is a powerful thing. Our brains latch on to familiar speak and don't bother questioning what we hear once a concept is internalised. Indeed, it is entirely possible to get stuck with the language of your milieu if you are not deliberately trying to challenge your worldview now and then. 

The language we speak as a nation is perhaps less influential than your own personal vocabulary. A couple of months ago I stayed with a friend I haven't seen in a while. I couldn't help but notice that her favourite catchphrase was "isn't it terrible?". Regardless what we talked about, my friend found terrible things in politics, art, food and the weather. Granted, all these things can be awful, but it appeared to me that finding faults became my friend's daily mantra. With that in mind it becomes very difficult to see anything positive. The negative mindset prevails, affects your daily life and becomes hard to shift. 

Let me finish this article on a positive note. A few years back someone sent me a link to a YouTube video which featured an interesting talk about the use of language to treat anxiety. The speaker recommended using toddler language to calm yourself down. Apparently, even if you are well in your 40s or 50s, your brain still remembers the language your mother used to soothe you when you were little. If you are feeling anxious or fearful, saying "Janochka, vse budet khorosho" (Little Jana, everything will be all right) aloud,  imitating your mother's voice, should help to calm yourself down. About a year ago I started coldswimming in a natural pond. In winter, the water is just 1-3C degrees warm. As I enter the pond, I frequently talk to myself as my mother would, counterbalancing the natural response which screams "What the f**k are you doing??!!". It works every time.

P.S. If you have a link to the video I refer to above, please send it to me and I'll post it here.

If you are a young parent, there comes a time when you'll be explaining to your children how babies are made. You might buy them a book with child-friendly illustrations or give your own talk (you will still probably ask Google for help or buy a parenting book to find something age-appropriate). And so the "big reveal" will probably feature something like this:

Babies are made when a male sperm meets a female egg. Each man has lots of sperm cells stored in his testicles. A woman has internal organs called ovaries which release one egg each month. When a man and a woman make love, sperm travel from a man's penis into a woman's vagina. Man's sperm cells compete with each other to reach that one precious egg. Only the fastest and the strongest sperm manages to get to the egg and impregnate it.

There is another way to tell this story:

A female egg is sitting in the uterus and looking at all the male sperm cells swimming towards her. She selects one sperm she likes, temporarily lowers the chemical barrier, sucks the sperm in and raises the barrier once again so that none of the other sperm can get in.

Scientifically speaking, I have described exactly the same process, but notice how different these two stories are. In the first story, we have a "princess" waiting to be "rescued", and we applaud male strength and agility. The female egg here is passive, while the sperm is the noble warrior doing all the work.  In the second story, it's the female egg who is in control. She is there screening the candidates, making the selection and putting up her defences against the unwanted intruders. She isn't a "princess", she is the boss.

For me, this is a powerful example of how gender bias controls our everyday narrative. Until I heard the alternative story of conception (on BBC Woman's Hour), I have always thought about it as a male sperm contest. It's like suddenly realising that virtually all movies released in the last century starred glorious men with women in supporting roles. It's the same bias that we apply subconsciously when praising boys for their strengths and girls for their beauty. Everyday gender bias is invisible until we start paying attention.

It's 21st century: our society is finally focussing on the problems of gender pay gap; lack of diversity in business and arts; gender discrimination in sports and gender bias that exists in the seemingly neutral science and technology. What we need is to examine our language, especially when addressing children, who, like sponges, absorb prejudice in the environment they grow up in. Please remember to praise girls for their wit and strength and boys for their sensitivity and compassion. When discussing husbands or boyfriends, it's time women stop using such expressions as "Sam is helping me about the house" because Sam (bless him, he sounds like a keeper) is only doing his fair share of running a household. Try to notice when you are saying "Football World Cup" referring to men's football because it's time to be specific whether we mean women's or men's game. 

Many of us - men and women - want equality of opportunities and are hopeful for change. Yet change isn't something we should be expecting to come from the top. Our politicians, employers, filmmakers and scientists need us to act in small but meaningful ways to change everyday behaviour and narrative. They'll follow suit. Young parents, we are all relying on you. 

Last night writer Mohsin Hamid was in London talking about his latest novel Exit West, shortlisted for the 2017 Man Booker prize. One the main protagonists, Nadia, wears a burqa - indeed, we meet her on the very first page of the novel "clad from the tips of her toes to the bottom of her jugular notch in a flowing black robe." As we turn pages, we learn that Nadia cut her family ties and lives on her own. She has a job and rides a motorbike. She enjoys sex and marijuana. In fact, we learn that Nadia wears burqa to ward off unwanted advances.

When Hamid was asked about Nadia, his liberal burqa-wearing protagonist, he explained that he wanted to tackle a stereotype most of us have about veiled women. He told us about a wife of his friend in Lahore who is a famous TV presenter in Pakistan. She too wears a burqa outside simply because she gets pestered too much otherwise. Hamid also shared another story of his father, a university professor, showing him a photo of a university canteen in the 1970s and now. In the first photo there are young men wearing jeans and turtle necks smoking in the canteen. In the second photo there are many covered women. His first reaction was to point out that Pakistan used to be much more liberal back in the days with students wearing Western clothes. Prompted by his father he then noticed that in fact there are just a couple of women in the first picture while half of the students in the more recent photograph were women. Indeed, today there are more female than male students in every university in Pakistan. So what is the true sign of progress: Western attire or women enrolling in higher education? 

Hamid's talk made me think my recent experience of a stereotype tackled head on. I was visiting King's Canyon in Watarrka National Park in the Northern Territory of Australia. There was a group of us, perhaps 15 people altogether. There was a couple from the US travelling with their two children aged about 17 and 19. The father was telling the guide about their travel itinerary. They planned an epic 33-day journey visiting Australia, Thailand, China and Japan. It sounded like a very expensive trip, and I assumed at once that the father was probably a Silicon Valley entrepreneur who had cashed out to take his family on such a long and pricey trip. I even found myself labelling his kids as spoilt brats for no good reason. And then something prompted me to talk to them. It turned out that the father used to work for the US army and afterwards he was a civil servant. He began saving for this trip ten years ago so that when he retired, he could take his family on an unforgettable journey. He had made the final payment for the trip just a month ago and finally there they were exploring the King's Canyon in the Red Centre of Australia. I told him how much I admired his endeavour and his accomplishment especially in the age where no one seemed to be saving money anymore.

The only way to crush prejudice is to start a conversation. We all need to admit that we are inherently biased and prejudiced. It's just how we are built with our brains programmed to jump to conclusions especially when encountering something familiar ("rich Americans") or different ("women in burqa").  It's up to us to take a step back and challenge our primitive instincts with more sophisticated examination of our thought process. This is the necessary step to effect bigger changes in society. What we need is to hear men in power admitting that they were doing nothing about the gender pay gap and all-male boards at their organisations before they had understood the importance of diversity and fair remuneration of their talent. Admitting to prejudice is the first step to tackle the way the society conforms to stereotypes. The second step is to act and make changes.  

One morning in the middle of December I found myself standing on a raised platform midway between Uluru, one of the most recognisable mountains in the world, and Kata Tjuta, no less beautiful range of 36 dome-shaped rock formations in the Northern Territory of Australia. It was 5am. I wasn't alone: dozens of tourists from Australia and all over the world were up before dawn and taking in the beautiful landscape being unveiled around us. I got chatting to a couple from Melbourne and we got on well that morning walking around terracotta cupola of Kata Tjuta under the impossibly blue sky. By the end of the walk, Leanne and Santiago (not their real names) invited me to join them for drinks that evening.

It's a privilege of travelling solo to meet people easily, to plan on a whim and make friends eagerly. We had champagne that night; the conversation flew with ease since we had so much in common: passion for travel and appreciation of good food. There was something else Santiago dropped into the conversation a couple of times: faith. I picked it up that they both were devout Christians, which is not something I can say for myself. Indeed, I probably belong to the atheist variety, despite having been christened as a child. At some point in the evening I asked my hosts to tell me about their belief. I asked the question and I vowed to myself not to interrupt and listen to them. Really listen. 

Santiago talked first. He told me about his childhood, adolescence and adulthood and how his faith evolved  and ultimately shaped him. He avoided using the word religion. He told me about his first marriage and even shared some earlier very intimate memories which had touched me profoundly. I didn't expect that level of trust and openness from someone I had just met. It didn't have much to do with alcohol - we had just one bottle of champagne between the three of us. It did have everything to do with genuine listening. I realised how rarely I'd done that - really listened to someone not in order to come up with the next question or to make my own point, but to simply let someone else talk without any interruption other than a gentle nod from time to time. Even as a journalist I would sometimes listen to a person I am interviewing with an agenda in mind: I am looking for a soundbite, for something that fits my story, not the story itself.

It was Leanne's turn next and she too was very candid and fascinating to listen to. They asked me then about my own views and I did share them but briefly. I was still under a spell of their stories. I didn't change my own attitude towards religion, but I understood their views and I respected them.  In a different scenario, I would have simply dismissed them as wrong, unimportant or uninteresting. I would have argued my point and tried to make them see "the light". Does that sound familiar?

Over the last couple of years we have been trying to adjust to the new political reality. It's been painful and it still is. One of the worst wounds afflicted by Brexit or the election of Donald Trump was the division of the society into "us" and "them". It doesn't matter whether you are a europhile or a eurosceptic, a liberal or a conservative, what matters is this polarisation eagerly sponsored by Facebook. While previously, some read the Guardian and others read The Telegraph, they largely kept it to themselves. Today we still read the Guardian and share articles online, quickly building liberal tribes and unfriending those who share MAGR posters on Facebook. And so we consume only those opinions we already share and the views from "them" get criticised or worse - simply dismissed. As for conversations offline, it's now commonplace to ban certain topics from family occasions such as politics or gay rights. This time last year we referred to the new era as fake news vs. facts, but I think it's time to face the reality. We are back to "us" vs. "them".

If we wish to live in a better society, sharing posts on Facebook and retweeting people who confirm our own opinions just won't do. We need to engage with "the other side". We need to learn to listen. Really listen. It's imperative to understand people who voted for Trump and UKIP. We don't need to accept their views but we need to show each other some respect. It's impossible to bring people closer together in a polarised society otherwise.  

With this stoke of enlightenment under my belt, I was enjoying myself at dinner in Brisbane, chatting to a few people a couple of decades older than me. We ended up talking about the referendum on gay rights which had resulted in the same sex marriage becoming legal in Australia. One of the dinner guests offered his opinion on the matter. He said: "Homosexuality isn't natural." And with that I was off the leash pointing out two male kangaroos being affectionate with each other just the other day on North Stradbroke island. I didn't listen to that man, I gave him no chance to express his view.

Was I wrong to dismiss my own resolution so quickly or are there some views which just don't deserve to be heard? 

Sunset at Uluru. This photo was taken by Santiago after the drinks we had.  

Do you remember the time when someone bad happened and you ran to your mum so that she could kiss you and make everything better? I do. And the other day when a curtain rod fell on my head narrowly missing the eye and scratching my forehead, I called Mama and asked for her sympathy. In reality, of course, things have changed a little. It’s my parents who now need my help, support and care. The same thing is happening to my peers: parents get sick, lose their marbles or need financial support. It’s fair enough - we are all getting older - but who is going to provide me with refuge now? 

Whether we realise it or not, we are all relying on some sort of refuge in times of need. Some people are lucky to have understanding and supportive partners who are good at listening and giving advice when prompted. Others prefer processing troubles internally rather than bringing them up. Both types of people still have to face their demons at night. Anxiety, fear, helplessness, grief tend to turn up late, like unwanted guests, and overstay their welcome. Some people deal with anxiety by playing the piano; others go for a run to subdue their anger. Some combat stress with food, others - with drink. 

I recently discovered that Buddhist teachings recognise the human need for a spiritual refuge. No matter how strong and self-reliant you are, you need help to carry your burden. While a packet of dark chocolate ginger biscuits may alleviate my stress about a work project, its effects are temporary and ultimately false. Buddhists teach about a “true refuge” - something genuinely nourishing and permanent. It is surprisingly relevant even thousands of years later.   

“True refuge” is found in Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. Let me explain.

Buddha means religion, spirituality and personal growth. It doesn’t matter if you are religious or a die-hard atheist because “awakening” is entirely possible in secular context. It’s just about recognising that old age won’t translate into wisdom if you aren’t prepared to invest in some personal development.

Dharma means Buddhist teachings. Once again, it’s about education and truth. A medical diagnosis may be overwhelmingly distressing until you do some research and find out the necessary facts to help you deal with the situation more rationally. In the post-truth world getting to the bottom of the story is more important than ever. Understanding the problem helps to tackle it because it is then possible to break it into more manageable tasks. 

Sangha are Buddha’s disciples. In modern context, it’s any wise and compassionate friend you can turn to for support. Some people have a knack of saying the right thing at the time of need which helps to soothe the inflamed mind. 

This trinity - Buddha, Dharma and Sangha - won’t bring back the loved one or undo the disaster but it will restore the peace of mind, which is imperative if you want to move on.  

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I learned about the “true refuge" at a London Insight workshop I recently attended in North London. I came to realise that I have found my "true refuge" in meditation. I was first recommended to try meditation via an app called Headspace back in 2011 (and I still use it today). I found it helpful at once: when someone at work pissed me off, I was able to “switch off” for 10 minutes listening to a guided meditation and calm down. Sadly, I didn’t begin a regular practice until late 2013 because I didn’t feel I had the time. In May 2013 I was diagnosed with M.E., a debilitating condition causing disproportionately severe fatigue after physical exercise, mental work or emotional feat. It’s like a smartphone which runs out of charge too quickly and often unexpectedly. I then realised that a 20-minute meditation helps me to re-charge and began meditating daily. For years I’ve been thinking of meditation as purely functional much like an afternoon nap, only without the added grogginess. But of course meditation is much more than that.

When we meditate, we focus our attention on one simple process or sensation like breathing. It is an exercise which means that when thoughts and feelings rush to disrupt that focus, we are (gently) guiding them away and keep our attention on the breath. As a result, after 10 or 20 minutes of meditation, we “wake up” with a less cluttered mind like a smartphone with only one running app. I feel immediately calmer and more energised after the meditation, but I also take refuge from unhelpful thoughts and feelings. Afterwards, the problems are still there, as is the pain and the grief and the sadness, but somehow the sharpness is gone and there is a sense of freedom, even if it is temporary. Importantly, I am beginning to see that after four years of daily practice, my mind seems to be able to deal with dramas life is so fond of showering us with - a little better. 

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The Buddhist meditation workshop I attended took place in a hall of a North London school. The walls of the hall were decorated with posters highlighting the students’ values, handwritten in acrylic. I read “kindness”, “tolerance” and “honesty”. I also spotted a word “resilience”. The school, we were told, offers meditation classes to its students. I think it is brilliant. Most of us have to learn resilience on the go when life chooses to surprise us. It would have helped to know that even the strongest need a refuge and it’s available to us all. 

A new exhibition has opened recently at the British Museum in partnership with the St. Petersburg Hermitage Museum. Scythians: Warriors of ancient Siberia is a fascinating discovery of culture and customs of the ancient nomadic warriors, who flourished on Siberian plains between 900 and 200 B.C. Archeologists working in Altai in Western Siberia found a rich collection of jewellery, clothes, weapons and religious artefacts in brilliantly preserved tombs thanks to permafrost. One of the items exhibited by The British Museum is a woman's boot, dating back to the 400-300 B.C. It is intricately decorated with red fabric, golden thread and miniature crystals.  A helpful caption explains that looking at the boot we can see that it must have been customary for Scythians to sit cross-legged on the floor, otherwise why would the shoe soles be so richly decorated. Exhibition curators also pose a question: "What would historians learn about you from your clothes?"

The question is presumably aimed at children visiting the museum, but I too found it fascinating. What indeed will the future generation make of our clothes?

One obvious conclusion would be that we have too much stuff! A recent Telegraph article quoting the Great British Wardrobe Report commissioned by Ariel found that on average Brits spend £1,042 on their wardrobes per year. An average woman (man) owns 95 (56) items of clothing and only wears 59% (62%) of them regularly. Thanks to convenient online retailers such as ASOS and Boohoo and discount chains like Primark and TK Maxx, it became really easy to shop. Marketing specialists employ an army of influencers and social media tricks to encourage us to take our credit cards out. It's true that many speak today of sustainable fashion and decluttering, yet overall we are the generation of walking wardrobes, shoe collections and shopaholics. I truly hope the humans have peaked, and that the next generation will opt for a capsule wardrobe of sustainable, breathable and colour-changing variety.  

Zooming into London, future anthropologists would probably take note of the sheer variety of garments.  One could spot a Sikh wearing a turban, an American tourist with a Harvard sweatshirt, an Italian with a fitted monogrammed shirt and a Nigerian woman in a bright dress heading into church on a Sunday.  Personally, I stopped taking any special notice of unusual outfits on the streets of London. To me, diversity here is a given.  

Zooming even further, I would probably nominate my friend James for a future anthropological case study. You see, James has recently bought two pairs of vegan shoes. (We used to call this "fake leather" but veganism has crept into all sorts of aspects of our daily lives.) The scientists would determine at once that James was a dapper vegan who worked in the City (who else wears brogues?). 

Perhaps it's too early to talk about the historic significance of the 2017 fashion. Instead, I'm inviting you to travel back to Russia in the 1990s. The Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, and Russia was tentatively trying out free trade. The first wave of Russian solopreneurs travelled to Turkey and China where they had bought lots of cheap textiles and brought them back to Russia in giant zipped plastic bags. Open-air markets sprung near train and bus stations all over Russia. Solopreneuers displayed their goods with even less thought that Primark or TK Maxx do today. Even in harsh winter months women would try on dresses and jeans in makeshift changing rooms behind a plastic curtain. Visiting such markets became the favourite pass-time not least because for once in their lifetime, former Soviet citizens were overwhelmed with choice.

Inevitably, women opted for brightly coloured clothes, as if to banish their grey-coloured Soviet past.  Counterfeit designer garments with frequently misspelt labels were a popular choice. I too had a bright green crop top with black letters D&G imprinted on my chest. It was mildly scandalous to wear that to school at the age of 15 but most teachers had no will to fight our obscene taste. They also shopped at the same markets, and perhaps looking at young girls in mini skirts and tucked-in checked shirts, they secretly wished that they too had had a chance to dress so boldly back in the days.   

Men were undoubtedly the main victims of the 1990s fashion in Russia. Many wore sweatpants and trainers to the office or on a night out. A must have accessory in those days was a golden chain - its thickness signalling the relative importance of the wearer. Mafia boys in Ekaterinburg wore ludicrously thick gold chains with newly cast orthodox crosses and matching thick golden bracelets.

Curiously, despite all that newly found abundance, people still wore the same things. I remember that at some point many girls wore identical black, stretchy miniskirts; then we swapped them for thin and shiny black leggings. Men bought tight-fitting, black, wooly hats which acquired an obscene name pidorka (I dare not translate it). I suppose that we may have evolved since the cave days but tribalism is deep in our DNA as is the desire to belong. 

Thankfully, Russian dress sense has recovered, and I dare say that you'd spot more stylishly dressed women on the streets of Moscow than London today. My biggest regret is that I haven't kept any of the gems I had worn in those days. I'd open a museum called "Russian Fashion of the 1990s" where one could try on garish outfits and take Polaroid pictures home. There'd be queue, I tell you!

This summer I spent a couple of days in Yerevan, the capital of Armenia. It's a charming city, which gets scorched by the heat during hot summer months. In the evenings local residents and tourists fill up the centre of Yerevan, walking up and down the Cascade, an outdoor collection of modern sculptures from all over the world, donated by Gerard Cafesjian, a wealthy American benefactor with Armenian roots. You'll find visitors posing by Fernando Botero's works and snapping sculptures by Barry Flanagan, Lynn Chadwick and Jaume Plensa. In fact, even away from the Cascade, walking through many Yerevan's parks, squares and avenues, I kept bumping into monuments, commemorating Armenian and Russian writers, poets, architects and scientists. It felt as if the old town is a treasure trove of Armenian cultural heritage. I liked it very much.

Come to think of it, every city probably has a monument or two it becomes associated with. There is a Little Mermaid in Copenhagen, which transports me back to my childhood, spent reading Hans Christian Andersen fairy tales. There is the Statue of Liberty in New York, but also a Raging Bull on the Wall Street in Manhattan. There is Motherland Calls! (Родина-мать зовёт!) in Volgograd in Russia, commemorating the battle of Stalingrad in the Second World War. There is Romulus and Remus statue in Rome depicting a she-wolf nursing two brothers. And of course, there are plenty of religious monuments of all faiths all over the world, which also speak for the local customs and traditions. Every monument - be it sombre or playful, old or new - is a cultural symbol which echoes national values.

So what kind of values come to mind when we hear about a new monument to Mikhail Kalashnikov, the designer of the infamous AK-47 automatic rifle, which is to be unveiled in Moscow in September 2017? The 7-metre sculpture is said to cost 35 million roubles ($538,000). Don't get me wrong - Kalashnikov was obviously an ingenious designer, but even he was tormented by his own invention. In a letter to the head of the Russian Orthodox Church before his death in 2013, Kalashnikov wrote that he was haunted by the thousands of deaths his invention was responsible for. “My spiritual pain is unbearable,” he wrote. “I keep asking the same insoluble question. If my rifle deprived people of life then can it be that I … a Christian and an Orthodox believer, was to blame for their deaths?” It's not Kalashnikov that unnerves me - it's the commemoration of his gun, the weapons in general, the cult of war and, inevitably, of murder.

What kind of city or its government chooses to put up a monument which celebrates the act of killing? I imagine taking schoolchildren to see the new statue and instilling in them - what exactly? You see, I have been brought up on the cult of the Second World War, everyone in the Soviet Union was. We read books and watched films about the Great Patriotic War, the exceptional sacrifice of our grandparents; we were taught to hate fascism, to worship our heroes and to be ready to die for our motherland, should the need arise. And it so happened that later mere boys, who had been spoon-fed war stories, were sent to Afghanistan between 1979 and 1989 and then returned to their mothers in zinc coffins. To add insult to the loss of grieving mothers, there was nothing remotely patriotic about that war.

And so I have been hoping all this time that the cult of war has been fading in my home country, but the opposite is true. The new statues being erected in Russia are commemorating Stalin and now Kalashnikov. I see that and I understand it, but I can't accept it. My own values have changed.

If I were asked to come up with an idea for a new monument for a city I live in, here is what I'd suggest. Recently I spent a day at a Central London hospital, which for me was an oasis of unreserved kindness. I have been incredibly well looked after even despite the long wait and the nervousness about being in a hospital. It's as if the staff were wired differently from the phlegmatic, chronically stressed Londoners one accounts on the tube every day. My nurse came to London from the Philippines.  She works 12-hour shifts four days a week and a short shift on her fifth working day. A short shift means an 8-hour day. She was cheerful and gentle. She taught me what dedication to one's work really means. She was the model of empathy. She made me want to cry from the sheer gratitude to be showered with so much kindness. And so if I were to commission a new monument in London, it would be a work of art dedicated to a NHS nurse. Something life-size and approachable. Children would be taught to value our healthcare staff, diversity and kindness. And I hope adults too would nod with gratitude passing it by.

As for Kalashnikov in Moscow, I'm sure it'll serve its purpose and instigate fear cultivated by the current Kremlin government. I can only hope that one day Russia will earn its respect through its achievements in science and technology, education and healthcare, art and social justice.  

Where have I been for the past two weeks? I remember flying to Moscow and meeting a school friend I haven't seen for about ten years. We ate okroshka, a traditional Russian cold soup, in her kitchen. I remember flying to Yerevan and then travelling in Armenia, visiting dozens of ancient Orthodox Christian monasteries; trekking up Aragats, Armenia's tallest mountain; swimming in the cool water of the magnificent lake Sevan, gorging on apricots, watermelons and sudjuk, nuts candied in grape juice and honey. I remember the unbearable heat in Yerevan's hostel and cooler nights in the mountains with the Milky Way brightly painted over the dark sky. But all that time my imagination was captured by a story, a captivating tour de force with a gentle title: A Little Life.

Hanya Yanagihara, the author of A Little Life (2015), was born n Los Angeles in 1974. Her father was a doctor from Hawaii. Her mother was born in South Korea. Yanagihara studied Liberal Arts at Smith College and worked as a travel journalist and editor of the Condé Nast Traveler magazine. A Little Life is her second novel, which took just 18 months to write. Neither Yanagihara, nor her agent expected it to be a success. A Little Life was shortlisted for Man Booker Prize in 2015 (and many other literary prizes). I am genuinely puzzled why it didn't scoop it. To me, it is a masterpiece. I haven't read anything quite like it in a while and I fear I never will. It's an outstanding novel with brilliantly drawn devastating characters, a compelling plot and a deliciously rich vocabulary. It's like yes, Nescafé would do in the time of need, but there is nothing like the deep aroma and complex flavour of properly roasted, ground and brewed coffee.

It's the characters that make A Little Life truly unputdownable. There is something almost mystical about a female author being able to carve, dissect and serve male psyche with such a clinical understanding of the subject matter. The central characters - Jude, Willem, JB, Malcolm and Harold - are vibrant, flawed and 100% authentic. Their virtues are obvious but it's their insecurities, fears and blemishes that draw in the readers. It's precisely why I devoured the 700-page volume so quickly.

The most interesting thing about the novel is that every person who has recommended it to me had described it differently. For my friend from Melbourne it was a novel about the New York art scene - inspiring, creative and competitive. Another friend described it as an ode to Boston and New York, cities he loves. My actor friend said that A Little Life was about love - an unhappy love story. Literary critics wrote about gay relations, social problems in America, New York bubble - you name it. It really is a multifaceted creation, like a savoury pastilla, dusted with icing sugar, which conceals dozens of thin layers and a punchy filling inside.

For me, A Little Life is about friendship. Just like Elena Ferrante, who unveiled every crease, every wrinkle about female friendship in her Neapolitan trilogy, Yanagihara succeeded in portraying male friendship. Personal ambitions, envy, jealousy, inability to open up and share tightly guarded secrets and fears have made it onto the pages of A Little Life. At some point I was screaming at my Kindle frustrated with the main characters as if they were people living and breathing, as if I could influence their lives. Even now I keep thinking about them, dearly familiar and yet intangible, floating somewhere between reality and fiction. The novel made me think deeply about my own friendships and their inevitable knots and tangles. It's reassuring that my own life lines have these to hold on to.

"Through insightful detail and her decade-by-decade examination of these people’s lives, Yanagihara has drawn a deeply realized character study that inspires as much as devastates. It’s a life, just like everyone else’s, but in Yanagihara’s hands, it’s also tender and large, affecting and transcendent; not a little life at all," writes Nicole Lee in her review of the book for Washington Post. The beauty of fiction is that it inspires and complements our own lives; it challenges and it soothes; it causes a storm but also provides a much needed perspective just when our own lives seem so completely overwhelming.